The university's central library was a temple of glass and silence, climate-controlled to a perfect temperature that my body appreciated after the walk under the morning sun.
I arrived at 7:50 a.m. It wasn't punctuality out of courtesy; it was strategy. I wanted to be seated, books open and the project outline mapped out before she arrived. In a negotiation, whoever controls the terrain controls the outcome.
I chose a table in the private study zone, away from prying eyes. I pulled out my laptop—an old, heavy model that buzzed like an industrial fan—and plugged it in. Around me, students with ultra-thin MacBooks typed with a fluidity money could buy. I ignored the difference. My machine wrote the same words, it just took a bit more effort. Just like me.
At 8:00 a.m., Valeria wasn't there. At 8:10 a.m., neither.
I didn't move. I didn't check my phone. I simply kept reading about the inflationary crisis of '98, mentally underlining paragraphs. If she thought she was going to make me desperate or have me texting her begging for her presence, she didn't know me. I knew how to wait. I had waited hours in lines for bureaucratic paperwork, I had waited for late payments, I had waited for opportunities.
Waiting for a spoiled rich girl was, comparatively, a break.
At 8:25 a.m., the click of heels broke the calm of the hallway.
Valeria appeared. She wasn't running. She didn't seem rushed. She walked with that deliberate slowness of someone who knows the world will wait for her. She wore dark sunglasses, even though we were indoors, and held a giant cup of coffee from the most expensive franchise on campus.
She reached the table, took off her glasses with a theatrical movement, and looked at me with a mixture of boredom and disdain.
"You're late," I said, without looking up from my screen.
"Traffic was impossible," she replied, dropping her designer bag onto the table with a sharp thud. It wasn't an apology. It was a statement of fact. "And honestly, scholarship boy, I had better things to do than wake up early to see your face."
She sat across from me, crossing her legs and taking a sip of her coffee. She didn't bring a notebook. She didn't bring a pen. She only brought her presence and her arrogance.
"Do you have an outline?" she asked, extending her hand like someone asking for the check. "Give it to me. I'll have a consultant from my father's company review it. He'll write the report for us. You just have to put your name on it and shut up."
I closed my laptop slowly. I looked her in the eyes. They were a cold honey color, intelligent but hardened by years of looking down on people.
"No," I said.
The word fell between us like a brick.
Valeria let out an incredulous laugh.
"Excuse me? Do you not speak my language? I'm offering you a guaranteed 'A' without you lifting a finger. Isn't that what people like you want? The easy way?"
There it was. The insult. The test. She wanted to see if I would get offended, if I would defend myself, if I would show any crack of insecurity about my social class.
I leaned back in the chair, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn't feel anger. Just a deep pity for her distorted view of the world.
"'People like me' know the easy way always has a hidden price," I replied calmly. "And I'm not going to owe favors to your father, or to you. We are going to do the work. Us. If you don't want to participate, you are free to go. But my name won't go on any paper I haven't written myself."
Valeria's face tensed. Her jaw clenched. She wasn't used to being told no, much less by someone wearing a shirt that probably cost less than her coffee.
"You're a proud idiot," she hissed, leaning forward. Her voice dropped in pitch, becoming poisonous. "Do you think you have dignity? Look at yourself. You're here surrounded by people who surpass you in everything. Your clothes stink of cheap detergent and your computer sounds like it's going to explode. You're a tourist in our world, Lucas. And sooner or later, you're going to be deported back to the misery you crawled out of."
It was a low blow. Calculated to hurt. And it did, somewhere deep in my pride.
But my face didn't move. I had heard worse things from drunk foremen and angry creditors. The insults of a frustrated princess were background noise.
"Are you finished?" I asked, with the bored tone of someone listening to rain. "Because the clock is ticking. Montero wants fieldwork. Cheap detergent doesn't affect my analytical capacity, and my computer, although noisy, processes data just the same as yours. The difference, Valeria, is that I know how to use it. You only know how to pay for someone else to do it."
I saw the flash of fury in her eyes. But behind the fury, for a split second, I saw surprise. I hadn't broken. I hadn't shouted. I had hit back with a cold, hard truth.
She held her gaze, defiant, waiting for me to look down. I didn't. I held the visual duel with the firmness of someone who has nothing to lose but his time.
Finally, she huffed and looked away toward the window.
"Fine," she said, voice tense. "What is your brilliant plan, then? Enlighten me with your street wisdom."
She didn't smile. She didn't relax. She was still an enemy sitting at my table. But she had accepted, grudgingly, that I wasn't a servant she could order around.
"We're going to analyze the informal market downtown," I said, opening my notebook. "Street vendors. It's pure economy without regulation. Montero wants reality, we'll give her reality."
"Downtown?" Valeria made a grimace of genuine disgust. "You want me to take my Italian shoes among greasy food stalls and sweaty people? You're crazy."
"It's that or fail," I said, starting to write down the project objectives. "You decide. If you come, I suggest you leave the Italian shoes at home. And the attitude, too. Down there, they don't care who your daddy is."
Valeria looked at me with hate. But she didn't get up. She didn't leave.
"I'll go," she said, spitting the word out. "But if anyone touches me or gets me dirty, I'll hold you responsible. And believe me, Lucas, I have lawyers who could make your life a legal hell before you can say 'insolvency'."
"Noted," I said, unfazed. "Tomorrow at 4:00 p.m. I'll send you the location. Don't be late. The market closes at 6."
"Don't give me orders," she retorted, standing up abruptly. She grabbed her bag tightly, knuckles white with tension. "I'm doing this for my grade, not for you. Don't get confused. You're still a nobody."
"And you're still a student who needs to pass," I countered, without raising my voice. "See you tomorrow, Castillo."
She turned around, swinging her perfect hair like a weapon, and marched off with the same haughty stride she had arrived with.
I was left alone in the silence of the library. I let out a long, slow sigh, feeling the tension leave my shoulders.
Valeria was a minefield. She was cruel, classist, and used to crushing people. But she had stayed. She had listened. And tomorrow, she would go downtown with me.
I had withstood her onslaught. I hadn't dominated her, not yet. But I had shown her that I was a wall she could pound against all she wanted without knocking it down.
And by the way she had looked at me before leaving—with that mixture of anger and calculating assessment—I knew that was exactly what she, in the depths of her twisted psyche, was looking for: something solid in her world of smoke and mirrors.
I went back to my screen. I had work to do. And for the first time all morning, a faint smile curved my lips.
This was going to be interesting.